Helga's Child
by NorikuKitsune
Summary: When a lost wizarding child wanders into a muggle university, they manage to awaken a long forgotten magical portrait, that will change their life and the course of history
1. One mistake after another

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, I am just playing with the ideas and am not profiting from their use

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There are places in the world that just scream dull. The very air is heavy and placid, leaving a feeling of normalcy and a plodding way of life. Usually this is not something to be striven for, rather a product of a type of lifestyle, though some deluded souls do endeavor to be nothing so much as plain.

Privet Drive, of Little Whinging, was one such area that had fallen under the spell of day to day life. Every household was structured and common place, much like their neighbors and their neighbors' neighbors lives. The husbands went off to work, while the doting wives stayed home to clean and gossip.

From the exterior, every home was the same, with simple variations of size and color. Yet, with closer inspection, one would see the sordid truths beneath the glazed eyes and placid manner.

Such as, the wife living in number 13, was having an affair with the piano instructor who came by increasingly more often. Or how the little old lady from number 8 has the habit of "accidentally" walking out of stores with items that will never appear on her receipt. Perhaps how the horribly spoiled boy from number 4 is not, in fact, the only child in that house. That couple from number 20 aren't actually married even though she is pregnant with their second child. Or how the husband from number 2 just realized he is gay and does not know how to tell his wife of 8 years.

All of these are very interesting facts, and they would make wonderful stories, but the most interesting at the particular moment in time is that of the never seen child from Number 4 Privet Drive. To begin, we will have to go back to how he came to this—home, 3 years ago.

The poor thing was orphaned in a tragic incident that I am sure you are aware. The events that follow may not be so well documented. Once the scene was surveyed, and the young child discovered, it was decided that he should be taken to his last remaining relatives to be raised. Now, mind you, this was done with the greatest of intentions. But, the road to hell is, as always, paved by those great intentions.

With no true assessment of the situation, and with no warning to the unsuspecting guardians to be, the child was wrapped in a slightly singed blanket, a thoughtful note tucked carefully in with the slumbering child, raw scar still visible beneath his fringe.

Admittedly, the entire situation could have been handled better, but what is a great leader to do? The rest of the world is celebrating, they have to desire to be burdened with the terrible truths that lead to this great victory. Who has the time to make a educated decision? Now is the time for action, though the war is over, the mindset is not, quick decisions or no decisions.

So what was done was done, and the deliverers of this child left, if not with light hearts, than with clear conscience that they could now celebrate in freedom, knowing the child would be loved and cared for.

When Petunia Dursley, resident of 4 Privet drive and aunt of the slumbering bundle of joy resting on her doorstep, opened the door to gather the days milk and paper she was greeted by such a surprise that her voice caught in her throat with a half formed gasp. There was no need to scream, for that would be unseemly, and she did not want to draw attention to herself in a time of confusion. With a darting glance around the street, she swooped up the child and scurried into her kitchen to figure out what was going on, and why some baby was on her doorstep.

Calling for her husband she examined the baby, noticed the ghastly scar, searched for a clue and found the letter. Her husband ambled in, settled back on his legs to compensate for his hefty build, just as she finished the letter. Of course he inquires after the presence of a strange child with no warning and when he learns that he is indeed the child of his wife's never mentioned sister, he is understandably curious.

Now, Vernon Dursley is not an unreasonable man. He is quite charismatic and fairly good at reading people, it is what has given him an edge in his position selling industrial drills. He knows that his lovely Petunia does not like speaking about her sister, but he also knows that she still loves the estranged Lily, and his dislike for the Potters stems from the hurt he sees on his wife's face when ever they are mentioned, not because of any abnormalities or quirks he may be aware of.

After the conversation that follows the reading of the wise leader Dumbeldore's letter, Vernon is not sure what to think, but understands that his wife is the expert in the area and reacts as she does to something to far beyond his experience. They discuss possible avenues, from an orphanage to actually raising the child with their own beloved Dudley, and for a time the latter seems possible, until the child awakens and those liquid green eyes stare up and Petunia and all the hurt ever felt from the perfect sister rises within her and she can hardly bare to look at baby Harry. If they are to raise him, it will not be as a son, but a ward they are burdened to care for.

So, Vernon spent his Sunday clearing out the second bedroom, making it habitable for a 15 month old babe, though not as opulent as his own sons by any means. While Petunia avoided the eyes of the curious toddler, checking for a diaper and being surprised that one was not present. Apparently Harry was potty trained early, leaving one less thing for Petunia to worry about.

Now she would do as the letter said, raise Harry within her household until he was retrieved for schooling, and perhaps teach him to be normal like her wonderful family.

So it went, for almost half a year, until the day that the Dursley's noticed Harry's magic. This was not the first time he had used accidental magic since coming to live with the Dursley's, but it was the first time the adults would witness it. Dudley and Harry adored each other, and would play for hours with nothing but laughter and squeals coming from Dudley's room. Harry would float a toy over to himself if he could not reach it, and Dudley would laugh, thinking it was a game. Harry especially liked Dudley's stuffed black dog, which he would always reach for when ever they played.

This particular day he was reaching for the high placed toy, willing it to him from its spot on the top shelf, when Petunia came in with a few snacks for the boys. She found that as long as she did not look into Harry's eyes she could be civil and a good parent to him.

She opened the door quietly, always enjoying seeing the children play, when she noticed both boys staring intently up at the top shelf. Following their stares she saw a toy floating down towards Harry's outstretched hands and Dudley clapping happily, ready to point at what he wanted Harry to get him.

With a shriek she snapped up the child by his shirt, hauling him down the stairs and to the recently emptied cupboard under the stairs for a time out. Shoving him into the dark space she told him to never do 'that' again, or else.

Leaving the terrified and confused boy in the dark space she returned upstairs to make sure her beloved Diddums was unharmed by the traumatizing events. Harry cried in the dark room, wondering what was wrong and why Aunt 'tunia was to mad.

It became a routine, anytime magic was done, or something odd and unexplainable happened, Harry was shoved into the cupboard. Soon he realized why he was being punished and he stopped doing magic as much as he could.

Sadly, Harry was not the only young wizard in the Dursley household and when he stopped the magic did not. Dudley wanted to stretch is magical wings as well, though he as well learned not to practice magic in front of his mama, as he was terrified of the dark.

This went on for a while without it coming to Vernon's attention, but finally he came home from work, expecting two happy boys, only to fine one sullenly quiet and one mysteriously absent. Upon learning Harry's punishment, and the reason behind it, he was shocked and worried, hoping that Harry was okay.

He hoped that his wife's actions were for the best, because he did not truly understand everything, and was not around to witness everything. Life went on, and the incidents continued and Harry was still blamed. Soon it was for things unrelated to Harry or magic. A plate was mysteriously cracked, her roses did not bloom or a vase broke. Petunia was so used to blaming Harry that she continued, and it soon bled over into everything.

By the time Harry's second year with the Dursleys drew to a close he spent most of his time in the cupboard under the stairs and never was allowed to play, especially not with his cousin. He wasn't hugged anymore, and hardly touched. Though he was fed regularly, he never go any treats and rarely acknowledged. He was almost like a ghost of the family, there but not.

Confused and scared, Harry did not know what was happening or why. He stopped the magic, really he did, why wouldn't they hug him. Even Uncle Vernon was ignoring him now. By the time the third year had rolled around Harry was sleeping in his cupboard, doing chores and never spoken to unless he was being yelled at.

The poor child remained confused but now thought of himself as a bad boy. He would do what he was told, trying so hard to be good, but still he would go to bed, curled up on his little cot crying from hunger and sadness, unable to stop apologizing in the now familiar darkness.


	2. It is too much

Disclaimer: still don't own Harry Potter, I just play in the world

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Quiet hiccuping breaths filled the cramped space beneath the stairs. The sound of cloth shifting and rustling and the thin body tried to get comfortable in the dark. A sigh, world weary and lost from a form far too small to be making such sounds. Footsteps from above sound muffled through the house, the floors shifting and moaning quietly with the movement, lulling the child within darkness's embrace into a restless slumber.

The dreams of children are often cheerful and chaotic, full of candy and adventures. For this child, dreams were fitful and dark, merely replayed memories behind closed eyes. Shouted words and screams, green light and darkness, a harsh hand grasping as his arm and storming steps rushing closer and closer in anger because something went wrong, again.

Now this child was not 'abused' as most people would think of it. Rather he was ignored unless something went wrong. No loving arms or soothing words for him. Not even his one time playmate and friend spoke to him now, fearing the same treatment of his smaller cousin.

In his dreams Harry was always trying to escape something, but in his real life, running away never really occurred to him. He had nowhere else to go in his mind, and who else would want him? It wouldn't be until the first time his aunt hit him that he would desperately wish to be anywhere else but where he was.

Running outside for the first time in months he just kept going, weak from lack of exercise and minimal food he felt dizzy as he ran through yards and across street after street, not caring where he went.

He made crossed over a bridge that led from the suburbs to the less residential portion of Little Whinging, winding through streets without looking up and, seeing a dark arch way, slipping into a hall.

He passed under an ivy strewn doorway and walked aimlessly down an open hall that echoed his tiny steps. He had run for a while, blocks and blocks and wandered half again as much through the streets without paying any attention.

Finally the exertion and stress of the day caught up with him and he just collapsed where he stood, crumpling to the floor in a cross legged slouch.

Leaning listlessly on the wall beside him he just drifted for a time, not thinking about anything. He hummed quietly, comforting himself with the only sound he could really make. Harry hadn't spoken for a while. Too afraid he would say something wrong, and realizing that he would not be heard. He sometimes thought he had forgotten how to speak because all he ever did was think things, even when he tried to talk.

Above him on the old stone wall he rested against hung a large painted portrait.

The beautiful blond woman in the picture was the epitome of strength and caring. Short with a rounded face and feminine curves, dressed in a heavy tartan and dress with her honey blond hair blowing in a breeze that rips at her yellow and black garb. She stood strong against an unseen force, looking ahead in the distance.

In her hand she clasped a bunch of herbs tied with a blue ribbon and held a thin sword loosely in the other hand, letting it rest on the rich earth beneath her feet and beside a glaring badger that guarded from attack.

Who is this strong woman painted so valiant, and where is she hung? She is the patron of hard work and tempered action, the ideal of the University in whose halls she rests.

Not only is she a painted character, she is a historical figure, though little is known of her. She is said to have been part of a band of scholars far before their time, that tried to enlighten and unite the people.

The truth of this claim is unknown to the observers of her painting, for of course she can not tell them, she is long gone. The only way a painting can speak is if it is magical, and even then it would have to be in the presence of magic to function and be activated.

As a sad and tired child gathers his strength beneath her, the Badger Lady, as she is known in these hallowed halls, stirred ever so slightly.


	3. One door closes

Disclaimer- I still do not own anything but my original ideas. Enjoy

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It wasn't until twilight was falling over the town and the shadows stretched past his curled up form that Harry finally calmed his racing heart, and the last of the adrenaline drained away. Looking up for the first time in hours he took in his surroundings. He was surprised to find himself in the middle of a rather long hall, bisected my archways and columns. It was quiet, creepy and currently abandoned.

Harry scooted back into the wall, looking around himself listlessly. A small hand reached up to touch the hot bruise on his cheek from Aunt 'tunia's back hand. He didn't mean to splash her. He had been learning how to wash dishes with his aunt standing watch beside him. He was still very short and even perched on the foot stool in front of the sink he had to balance on his toes, especially when he was reaching into the sink for dishes and such at the bottom. The water was dirty from soaking the morning dishes and when he inevitably slipped a wave of the dirty water hit him and his aunt. He didn't have any time to realize what had happened, his eyes widened in fear as the hand slammed into him with no warning. Aunt 'tunia even seemed surprised by what happened.

His cheek stung, even from his light touch. With a wince he snuggled into himself, wrapping his arms over his thin torso, and drifting off, exhausted from his adventure. A groan startled him to wakefulness, shooting adrenaline through his slight form once again and his heart to pounding. A loud yawn and rustling of cloth followed as Harry's eyes darted around the hall, searching for the source of such a close sound.

In the portrait above him, the Badger Lady was awakening for the first time in hundreds of years. She stretched her arms above her head, twisting and turning to get rid of any stiffness. She may be a portrait, but standing still in one position for so long made moving difficult. Her familiar Alrid glared balefully around them before curling up at her feet, seeming to not care for where they were. Watching the old badger's actions with amusement, she finally looked around herself as well, searching for the source of so much magic as to awaken her fully.

Over the years she had brief moments of awareness, brought on my a muggleborn or squib walking her halls, yet none had been able to awaken her fully. A saturation of magic was what kept portraits moving. Those is old family homes would slowly stop moving if the family line weakened or if fewer children were born to the family. Portraits outside of magical centers like Hogwarts or Gringotts, would slowly stop moving until a magical source strong enough awakened them. Usually that would be a large group of magical folk or beings staying around a portrait for an extended time. Or perhaps if some wizard or witch cast a spell to awaken the portrait, sending a directed influx of magic into the portrait's center. What she found to be the source was none of these things.

A curled up dark haired child rested against her frame. She could make out his head and shoulders, but the rest was so tightly against her border that she could not see it from her 2 dimensional space. It was times like these she wished she was able to pop out of her frame, even a slight bit, to see what was happening around her, rather than the immediate view in front of her image. Portrait's line of sight was very limited, though thankfully not their hearing. They could hear things even while immobile, catching conversations and changes over the years.

She could sense the magic coming from the short haired child, though it was not steady. Fluctuating spikes of wild magic that only a child can manage. She could feel the waves of it like distant echoes, not the sharp senses her original self was in possession of, but she was aware of it even as a painting.

"Child?" she queried softly, trying not to startle the being leaning against her. She hoped he was a wizarding child that had seen magical painting before and not be afraid, but then why would he be sitting at the base of a painting in the middle of a muggle university?

Harry had been looking around for the source of the sounds and literally jumped when a voice spoke. He knew he was alone in the hall, he had looked. His mind was sluggish, tired from the up and down of the day. The voice came again, soft and questioning from above him. Jerking his head up he stared at the barreled stone ceiling, perhaps looking for a PA or speaker of some kind.

While looking up he saw movement, coming from behind him. He whipped around and scuttled across the floor to the opposite wall, knees drawn up to protect himself from what ever was moving. Yet when he looked back across the hall the only thing there was a large painting.

The scene looked peaceful. Rolling green hills with a multicolored sky, set in early twilight. On a distant horizon an old stone castle stood tall and proud at the edge of a forest. The colors were soft and soothing, distracting Harry from his fear. Then the pretty blond lady crouched down in her portrait, peering at him curiously.

"Child, are you not well?" when she received no response she tried to think of something to say that would ease Harry's fear. It was obvious this child had never seen a portrait in his short life. "Do not worry. I will not harm you. I can not come out of this frame towards you." her words seemed to have no effect on the wide green eyes staring at her. But she could make out the darkening shape of a bruise on the poor things face. She could not abide abuse, especially that to a child. The bruise explained some of the fear in his eyes though. She decided to try just talking, seeing if she could draw him out of it.

Harry continued to stare at the moving person in the picture. It did not look like a television, and she seemed to be talking to him, so she must see him somehow. His curiosity was growing, his fear melting away as she continued to talk to him without seeming to expect a response.

"Well, this is marvelous, truly. I have not been awake, well it seems like a long while," here she glanced at the child from the corner of her eye while pretending to look around herself, "Though this is a much more mundane sight to greet me than my last remembrance." this time she saw a reaction from the boy, a spark of interest in his face. He appeared to be curious now, listening to a good story, as any bairn* was want to.

"Hmm, now the last time I remember moving as all. Why, that was when they were moving the pigs through the hall and I noticed that a crup or two was chasing the beasts, nipping at their heels. I am not 'certain how crups came to be in my university's halls, because I can not remember a crup that did not bite the first muggle it encountered. Maybe they were not only crup. They were darling little things though, about so big," she gestured in front of herself about shoulder width apart, "and they have the sweetest tails. Oh yes, they have two tails. That is how you tell them apart from dogs. That and the biting of course."

She could see the boy had calmed down some, and was not so curled up now, opening with his curiosity like a flower. Helga was unsure what to say now though. Her experience with children was limited to those she had taught. As much as she would have liked to have children, it never came to be. Perhaps telling a story or two would get the child to open up.

"You see, I made this place many years ago, to help educate our community. It was for people with magic that had never heard of wizards before. I am not sure how it came to serve as a marketplace, or how the livestock were lead down my halls, aside from those occasional crups, but I am glad that it has become a school once more. I rarely feel anyone with magic walk through my halls these days, which is a sad thing for me. I am so glad that I have the opportunity to meet you! Such an interesting young wizard." Her she noticed the boy sunk back into his protective position and shook his head in small sharp jerks.

"No? You aren't a wizard? Well, you have the potential to be a great wizard. I can sense these thing, it is part of why I was made. You may wonder why I am moving. I can see how shocked you are, but the answer is simple. I am magical." she was pleased to see that her audience loosened slightly once again. It was like a dance, a retreat and pursuit, drawing him out and trying not to scare him away.

"I am the only painting of a real woman who lived many years ago. I was painted with the purpose to teach others, and not let them forget history. Which is rather ironic, as I seem to have been forgotten myself." the boy was obviously curious to hear more but he didn't seem sure what to make of it, an eyebrow slightly raised and his head tilted.

"I see you are not one to be easily fooled, which is an admirable trait, very practical. What I say is all true though. That is another attribute of my painting. I must always speak the truth. I am also able to sense magic. One of the abilities of the woman I am a painting of is that she could sense magical energy, even the smallest amount. She could determine how powerful you are, or if what she holds has an enchantment cast upon it. I, as her portrait, do not possess her every ability, but I have a similar power. I too can sense when magic is around and how much of it, though not nearly as sharply as my counterpart was known for." he had obviously not understood everything that was said so far, but he remained curious and attentive, his expressive face showing every thought and query. As she watched him, she noticed his eyes straying to the snoring lump beside her foot.

Helga reached over next to herself to run her fingers through Alrid's silvery fur. He was not a young badger, and the lush black that once covered him was not speckled with white and silver, and he shone in the painted twilight. He opened an eye to find out what she wanted, but seemed uninteresting in the entire situation. "Alrid, would you like to meet our new friend?" her familiar huffed and made a low groaning sound that showed how put upon he was, but he hefted himself up and sat next to her in his awkward badger lounge. He tilted his head towards the quite boy and lifted a clawed paw in greeting.

Harry was delighted. This animal, not at all like a dog, but even less like the cats he had seen was completely alien to him, and he thought it must be magical like the lady before him. Now it was waving, and understood what the pretty lady said. He was sure of it, the alrid was a magical animal.

"If you would like to come closer, maybe I can introduce you." Harry thought about it for a long while, but so far he had been safe, and the painting had been more friendly to him than he could remember anyone being for a long time. He scooted forward a little, until he was in the center of the wide hall, close enough to see them clearly, but still far enough that if they jumped out at him he could escape. Besides, this way he could still see the castle on the hill without bending his head all the way back.

"Ah, I can see you so much better now. Alrid, I would like you to meet our new friend--" here she looked down at the boy expectantly. He didn't seem like he was going to say anything though. She was ready to continue talking about her familiar when she heard the quiet voice.

"harry"

"Did you say Harry? That is your name? That is a very strong name, from Harold, originating from Almany, meaning ruler. A good strong name. My name comes from Almany alce*. It means holy. I have never liked that meaning though, it sounds so serious, and I am not very serious most times." She carried on her largely one sided conversation with aplomb, glancing into his wide green eyes that never seemed to blink as they stared at her.

"Alrid's name also has a hidden meaning. His means noble friend. He is my familiar. All witches and wizards have one, they are a companion and a close friend, and sometimes help their partner do difficult spells and enchantments." she couldn't stop smiling as she watched the interaction between the badger and the boy. They were watching each other, and seemed to mirror each others movements, shifting one way or the other, lifting a hand, turning the head. She was so happy she had learned this young wizard's name, now she just needed to learn his story, and why he was bruised.

"You look very tired Harry, I am sure you have had a long day. And now you have met a magical portrait. Do you need to go home soon?" the poor thing froze and looked about himself quickly, seeming to realize he had no idea where he was. "Are your parents here? Can they come get you?" Now Harry shook his head and look down at his bony knees, obviously saddened. "No parents? Oh I am so sorry dear. Do you know how to get home?" he just kept his head down and shook it slightly again.

"Well, not to fret, I can get you home. I did not tell you of all my abilities before. Helga Hufflepuff the original was also skilled in creating doorways. I have some of that as well. All you need is to touch my frame and think of home." she rose from her crouched position slowly, careful not to startle off her new friend and waited for him to gain the courage to cross the remaining distance to where she hung. When his small hand reached out and the over sized sleeve of the shirt he wore slid up to his elbows she saw how thin his was, though thankfully there were no more bruises. Inside she fumed, but she did not want to scare him. Alrid rumbled beside her, also displeased, but quiet enough that she only noticed because he was leaning on her leg.

When she felt the slight shift that indicated the boy's thoughts had done what she wanted her frame swung open. Behind her frame was a large door, as tall as she was. It was solid wood and very plain in appearance, with no ornate carvings or decorative rot iron hinges. The door itself was not interesting at all; it was what lay on the other side of it that was truly magical. Helga's skill with doors and portals allowed her to create the signature room in her beloved Hogwarts that became what ever you imagined. Around the wizarding world she had built doorways like the one behind her portrait, that with the right imagine in you head and a password that not many knew, you could go anywhere. Whatever place you thought of would be on the other side of that door when you opened it. This particular door was controlled exclusively by the portrait, and only opened when the portrait trusted the traveler. The next secret she imparted was only taught to those under her care.

"This door will lead you to your home, Harry. You just step through and you will arrive there in moments. I have greatly enjoyed meeting you, and would like to talk to you again soon. This door will let you come back, you just need to memorize where you come out, okay? When you want to return merely walk to where you came out and pace in front of it 3 times while saying my name. Helga Hufflepuff. Travel safely my young friend. Good bye for now"

Harry stared at the back of the painting still instructing him, then glanced down at a piece of paint that had rubbed off on his hand when he touched her frame. It was a long thin piece of gold flake, and it was proof that this wasn't a dream. With his other hand he reached for the handle, placed just within his grasp, and the second his hand touched the old metal latch the door swung open on its own. Through the doorway he saw a fence covered in thick ivy, the same fence that ran along the back of Number 4 Privet drive. He heard Helga say Goodbye just as he stepped through the doorway.

He looked around himself to see that he had just stepped out of the side paneling of the old wood shed. This side was not visible from the house or the street, protected by fence on two sides and the angled shed on the other. He memorized the location, staring back through the doorway and watched as it disappeared before his eyes. He stumbled out from behind the squat wooden building and cautiously started walking towards the silent house. His hand remained clutched around the golden paint chip, too afraid to open it and find nothing there. Even as he walked into the house, greeted by worried shouts and rapid fire questions of where he had been he remembered his odd journey and what he had learned about magic. He would have to visit again, soon. And when he finally was alone in his little cupboard he opened his hand to find a glimmering piece of gold resting in his palm, reflecting the meager light from the hall that flowed through the door vent. Yes, he would have to return soon.

TBC

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bairn is a scottish term that means young child, it is used throughout the UK and has many variations and spellings. I just chose my favorite.

Almany is the Old English for Germany. I believe Helga has been listening to the students and people walking through her halls and her speech is less formal because of it, but a few things would stay especially if she did not hear it spoken often.

Alce is the Old English for "also" and is pronounced "all-say"


End file.
